Moving

I am now mixing this blog up with a new one, called "I Wrote..."
so from now on if you want to read my poetry, please go to my new blog
http://www.iwrotethesethings.blogspot.com/

Other Poets

I would like to hear from other poets, so if you have a poem you'd like up on here, please send it to indiana_blogger@hotmail.com
If it's appropriate, I will hopefully put it up on the blog.
I'd love to read your work
Indiana

World War One Conscription

In History at school, we've been learning about the ANZAC's, World War 1 (WW1) and how it affected Australia. We just learnt about conscription. That was the name the government used when they got Australia to vote on whether Australian men should be forced into the army when they turn 18. The Australian Worker, a newspaper of the time, seemed to be against it, because it put out this poem that I really wanted to share on my blog. So here it is:

The Blood Vote

Why is your face so white Mother?

Why do you choke for breath?

O I have dreamt in the night, my son,

That I doomed a man to death.

Why do you hide your hand Mother?

And crouch above it in dread?

It bereath a dreadful brand, my son

With the dead man's blood tis read.

I hear his widow cry in the night,

I hear his children weep,

And always within my sight,

O God!

The dead man's blood doth leap.

They put the dagger into my grasp,

It seemed but a pencil then,

I did not know it was a fiend-a-gasp

For the priceless blood of men

They gave me the ballot paper.

The grim death warrant of doom.

And I smugly sentenced the man to death

In that dreadful little room.

I put it inside the box of blood,

Nor thought of the man I'd slain,

Till at midnight come like a whelming flood

God's word - and the brand of Cain.

O little son! O my little son!

Pray God for your mother's soul.

That the scarlet stain may be white again

In God's great judgement Roll.

Not the most optimistic poem, but I suppose that's what it was for. I'm not sure who wrote it, but they were trying to get a point across. I'm guessing they wanted it to be affective. It worked, for me anyway. I personally think the author was trying to tell people that voting for conscription, for forced soldiers, would be to kill them, and so they would be sinning, going against God. War had been advertised as an adventure in the beginning, but people eventually came to realise it wasn't so great. So many people believed that making it law for men to become soldiers probably wasn't the nicest thing to do. Personally I agree.

I'd love to hear your opinions, and if you thought the poem was effective or not.

I'm Back!

I'm finally back to update my blog. I havn't been on for a while, because I've been really busy with school work and things, but now I'm going to make sure that I put more effort and dedication into my poetry blog. I'm planning my next post as we speak (or type). I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!
Indiana

Small Thankyou

Just wanted to say a quick thankyou to all of my friends who have taken the time to look at my blog. I hope you enjoyed it ^_^
Indiana

Great Weekend

Well, I've just come back from a great weekend in Tenterfield at Oracles Of The Bush. It's a sort of festival for bush poetry. My family and some family friends go every year, though there wasnt as many this time. My family didn't want to go so I went with one of our friends. Most years I like to enter the Looming Legends competition, a compettition of poetry with categories for all ages. I couldn't this year, but I still enjoyed the poetry concert and watching one of the looming legends heats. We also got a chance to climb bald rock, something that really tested my fitness!
Today was the last day of the Oracles Of The Bush weekend. This morning we went to the park for the Brekkie Brawl. The Brekkie Brawl is a fun event where we got to enjoy a hot breakfast while listening to very talented poets have a go at doing poems about very random subjects. It was part of a minor but important for me competition. Once that was over, they invited some poets to walk up and give their own poem, not part of the competition. I stepped up and had a go, as is an unofficial tradition for me. One year I had said the Ken The Rooster poem for it. This time I did another one of my own poems, which I will try to get onto my blog in another post when I can.
The whole weekend was great. I met some wonderful poets, got the autograph of one of them and listened to their great work. I also gave the blog address to one of these great poets - Gary Fogarty - and I have to admit, I felt kinda proud when he asked for the name of the blog. These bush poets are really nice people. They can come up with some really wacky, unique, funny stuff, which I always enjoy, and when they give serious poem, i listen just as hard. I will try to get some photos and possibly a video from the weekend onto my blog (when I figure out how- I'm not the most technilogical teenager I admit!). It was a really great weekend, as it always is, and I look forward to going again next year. I hope more people come to enjoy this festival.

Lack Of Inspiration

I have been on short supply of poems lately. I've needed to write one for the Dorethea Mackeller Awards, also need one to enter the Oracles Of The Bush, then I need to write one to enter a competition based on smiling, plus my friends from my band want to do a song for the smile competition, so I'll need to write lyrics for that too. But I'm not too worried. I enjoy this type of work, and as soon as inspiration hits me, I'm sure the words will come pouring out.

That's the thing about my poetry. If I don't have inspiration, I just sit there. I think... and think... and think... and I write a few ideas down, then cross them out... then think some more... you get the idea. So anyway, I just have to be patient, and then out of nowhere, BOOM another masterpiece. Well ok, not masterpiece obviously, but when the ideas come rolling in and I write them down, I have to admit I'm usually proud of my work. I have to say, I'd like some of that inspiration soon. Those comps DO have deadlines...

Waltzing Story

In my english class, we had to turn the famous Waltzing Matilda song/poem into a short story. My friends did such great stories, I almost feel silly putting mine up here. But here it is. I did it from the stockman's point of view. It's a version I edited slightly.

The stockman watched in disgust as the jumbuck, one of his sheep, was forced into a tucker bag by a filthy looking swagman. But he was too scared to take matters into his own hands. So he left the swagman singing a foriegn tuneand off he went to find the police. That swagman would be arrested for stealing one of the stockman’s sheep. By the time the stockman got to town on his thoroughbred, the jumbuck would surely be dead, but he would still ensure justice was served. He went to the police and explained what had happened. Three troopers were sent to find the swagman and arrest him. So the stockman began riding back with the troopers following. They got to the farm and rode along the dusty trail towards the Coolabah tree where the jumbuck had been taken. And there was the swagman, watching and waiting for his billy to boil. Not only had the swagman stolen a young sheep but he was also trespassing on private property! He would surely not get away with this. The swagman saw the oncoming horses and their riders, and jumped up.

“Who’s that jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag?!” called out the angry stockman. The troopers rode down towards the billabong where the swagman was camped. They surrounded him and got off their horses to arrest him. The stockman smiled, knowing that the swagman would get what was coming to him. But the swagman was more stubborn then the stockman had thought.

“You’ll never take me alive!” cried he and the stockman watched in amazement as the traveller jumped into the billabong and let himself drown. The troopers tried to pull him out but they themselves were to afraid to get their uniforms wet. The stockman went down to the abandoned tucker bag and pulled out the frightened but very much alive jumbuck. The stockman couldn’t believe his luck. The troopers left the swagman’s body in the billabong and left on their horses. They began discussing how the chief would know of their bravery as they protected the stockman when the swagman went crazy, and how he ended up falling in the billabong. How they tried desperately to drag the swagman out but he was too panicked, and drowned before they could save him.

The stockman ignored them and led his sheep to the rest of the flock. The next day, he went back down to the billabong to clean up the mess the swagman had left. But as he picked up the now cold billy, he heard the swagman’s voice singing that creepy foreign tune.
"you'll come a waltzing matilda with me..."
The swagman didn't know who matilda was and he didn't wanna find out. He dropped the billy and ran, not wanting to confront an angry ghost. To this day, no-one has gone back to that billabong.

The Man From Snowy River

We are going to be looking at this poem for english at school, so I thought I'd put it up here and talk a little about it.It's a very long poem.

The Man From Snowy River

By A. B. 'Banjo' Paterson

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around

That the colt from Old Regret had got away,

And had joined the wild bush horses --- he was worth a thousand pound,

So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.

All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far

Had mustered at the homestead overnight,

For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,

And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,

The old man with his hair as white as snow;

But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up ---

He would go wherever horse and man could go.

And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,

No better horseman ever held the reins;

For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,

He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,

He was something like a racehorse undersized,

With a touch of Timor pony --- three parts thoroughbred at least --

And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.

He was hard and tough and wiry --- just the sort that won't say die ---

There was courage in his quick impatient tread;

And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,

And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,

And the old man said, "That horse will never do

For a long and tiring gallop --- lad, you'd better stop away,

Those hills are far too rough for such as you".

So he waited sad and wistful --- only Clancy stood his friend --

"I think we ought to let him come," he said;

"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,

For both his horse and he are mountain bred".

"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,

Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,

Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,

The man that holds his own is good enough.

And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,

Where the river runs those giant hills between;

I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,

But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen".

So he went --- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump ---

They raced away towards the mountain's brow,

And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,

No use to try for fancy riding now.

And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.

Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,

For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,

If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them --- he was racing on the wing

Where the best and boldest riders take their place,

And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring

With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.

Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,

But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,

And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,

And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black

Resounded to the thunder of their tread,

And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back

From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.

And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,

Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;

And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,

No man can hold them down the other side".

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,

It well might make the boldest hold their breath,

The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full

Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.

But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,

And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,

And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,

While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,

He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,

And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat ---

It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.

Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,

Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;

And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,

At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,

And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,

Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,

As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.

Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met

In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals

On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,

With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.

He followed like a bloodhound on their track,

Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,

And alone and unassisted brought them back.

But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,

He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;

But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,

For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise

Their torn and rugged battlements on high,

Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze

At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,

And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway

To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,

The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,

And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

Well, I enjoyed this poem more then I thought I would. I actually quite liked it. I think it uses great technique and has a really good rythm once you get it flowing. This poem is also a great example of the famous saying, 'never judge a book by it's cover'.

The desricption is very well done in this poem, I can imagine the man riding his horse down the steep hill, yelling with delight. I could imagine all of it in my head.

I think I'll enjoy learning about this poem in english, and I am making a note to have a look at some more of banjo's work in the future.

My Mistress

This poem is one I got from the poetry book I mentioned in the Ken The Rooster blog. The name of the book is "Trucking About" put togethere by Sam Smyth. The name of the poem is My Mistress. I don't know who the author of the poem is. I figured this poem was very appropriate for Australians.

My Mistress

From her sprawling sandy beaches

To her mountain forests high

Her slopes, her plains, her deserts

Underneath that southern sky.

There lies a taunting mistress

So Wild, so young, so free

Abound in graceful beauty

But as impulsive as can be

To see her gentle side

She's like a mother with her child

She may lull you into thinking,

That she's rather meek and mild

But I tell you tread carefully

For she'll put you to the test

And if you don't heed her warnings

You'll come off second best

But no matter her moods

She's the greatest land on earth

And I'm so very glad

She's the place of my birth

No matter where I wander

No matter where I roam

I'm proud to be an Aussie

And call Australia home

Don't you just love an Aussie poem?

Poetry Appeals To Me

I've always enjoyed poetry. Even as a little kid in primary school, I''d jump at any oppurtunity to write a poem. I've got books full of my short stories and poems. And I've always been proud of my work. I've written so many poems. Unfortunately I no longer have most of them, but poetry has never stopped appealing to me. I even use my poetry in songs now, for my band. They write the music, I write the words, and I've been told that my lyrics are really good. It makes me feel proud to find something I'm good at, and something that I enjoy so much. Poetry makes me happy, and not just my own. I love to spend time reading poems wherever I find them. I don't go crazy over all of them, of course, but I'm usually able to entertain myself for a while with poetry. Writing this, I realise I have really slowed down with my poetry. Apart from my songs, I haven't written anything that ryhmes for ages. But I'm going to write poems once again. It's a good hobby that I really enjoy so I'm going to keep it up. Poetry always has, and always will appeal to me. It shows me a little something of who I am.

Ken The Rooster

My mum and I wrote this poem for me to use in a poetry competition in Tenterfield. I didn't win but enjoyed it all the same. I also performed it in a brekke brawl and was given an Australian Poetry book for it. Here is the poem my mum helped me write:

Ken The Rooster

Ken had a life in suburbia,
But the neighbours didn’t like his crow.
He started up at 4am,
Just to let them know
The sun is coming up,
Get ready for a brand new day!
But the neighbours weren’t ready for a wakeup call,
They had him sent away!

So Ken came to us in a cardboard box,
To live with our free rangers.
We kept him separate for a while
Until the rangers were not strangers.
Ken was full of self-importance,
Although a scrawny little boy
He strutted up and down the fence,
As though a wound up toy.


He was a little Belgium bantam,
All the way from town you see,
He was black, with white specks on him
His wings were quite droop-ie
Ken was half the size of all the hens,
But did not seem to care,
He wanted to get amongst those girls
He thought it was not fair


And so we let him in,
With all the bigger hens,
He could strut around night ‘n’ day,
Then start all over again.
Ken started crowing at 4 am
But we all just ignored him.
He thought that he was the king, the boss,
That all the girls adored him.
We hadn’t the heart to tell him the truth,
Out there in the paddocks of home,
That that poor little guy
Had short man’s syndrome.

Then the tragedy happened,
It made us oh so blue.
We found that Ken could not be found,
We knew that it was true.
The great big carpet snake,
That had been eating all our eggs,
Took Ken away for dinner
And ate those scrawny legs


We miss that little rooster,
That cute little guy,
So if you ever own a rooster
Be careful!
… The snake may come say hi!

Now Ken, you shall always be remembered.